crinklybee

I am Now Going To Ask Miranda to Bring Us To A Close

In a welcome break from alternately humdrum and hectic office existence, I am sent to Birmingham for a conference. High-flying industry speakers are promised, and there is even loose talk that there may be a minister present. Besuited and with shirt freshly be-ironed, I stand alone on Levenshulme station just past dawn, watching the sun rise cinematically over the Al Waalis Banqueting House and Wedding Parlour (or as it may be known to older readers, the Palace Nightclub). Presently, the 7:04 all stations to Buxton hoves into view.

One large americano from Stockport station cafe and two chapters of a slim French novel later (because this is all part of the guilty pleasure of being sent to conferences in faroff cities, you have to make the most of the opportunity to impress your fellow longdistance commuters by trickling overpriced cardboard coffee onto your freshly ironed shirt and peering enigmatically into the middle distance just outside of Stoke in response to a particularly evocative passage in an impressively battered European paperback) I am arriving at New Street. Pausing only to take a hasty snapshot of the front of the train (a special request from Frankie, who, on being told I was off to the Midlands for a meeting on a train, breathlessly exclaimed - 'OH! I wish I had your job!') I navigate my way through the Palissades and emerge into the astonishing late September sunlight and into a Birmingham quite unrecognisable from the city I knew the best part of 25 years ago.

After perhaps 20 minutes of wandering the pedestrianised walkways in the vague hope that the Birmingham Hippodrome may reveal itself from the shadows of the neverending concrete spacescape of the Second City, I give in and ask a student boy- who in a fine advert for the Youth Of Today, is obliging enough not only to lead me more or less to the door, but also to listen politely to my disconnected reminiscences of watching Pop Will Eat Itself in Digbeth in 1987 and missing the last 558 bus back to Wolverhampton. I arrive at the conference venue with 10 minutes to spare, and even have time to slip into a telephone booth, Superman style, and put on the black and white patterned tie that I save for weddings, parties, and the sort of conferences where the presence of Ministers of State is rumoured.

I needn't have bothered. The Minister of State (a clue: he's part of a Tory dynasty, and his father inspired a Spitting Image Puppet with a hairstyle in the shape of a Walnut Whip) is conspicuous by his absence, and, presumably as a result, shirts without ties in the style made fashionable by Tony Blair appear to be the order of the day. I hasten through the foyer and (once again in the style of Superman, except this time in the gents toilets) take the tie off again. There follows a conference, which follows the time-honoured format of six and a half hours of Death By Powerpoint, punctuated by fifteen minute intervals (they are called 'breakouts', which tells you all you need to know really) during which the etiquette is to network furiously while trying not to make it too obvious that what you're really interested in is the biscuits (there's also a wierd subdetail of conference etiquette, the nuances of which I have never properly mastered, around deciphering the name badges of female delegates without arousing the suspicion that you're lingering on their, er, backdrop, for a millisecond more than is appropriate among Guardian-reading professionals during the hours of daylight).

I manage to avoid death by powerpoint, partly by taking furious, caffeine-enhanced notes on my powerpoint handouts, which, in an effort to remind myself when back at the office who said what, say things like 'Possibly Scottish Ex-Indiepop Girl Turned Executive With a Heart of Gold, Tripped Over High Heels When Approaching Podium', and 'Diffident Hugh Grant-Alike, Halting in Delivery But With Public School Sourced Sense of Entitlement'. There is a closing speech ('I am now going to ask Miranda to bring us to a close' are the exact words of the ageing louche of a compere), and a final breakout in the foyer, this time featuring the lifesaving addition of complimentary, lottery-sponsored glasses of chilled chardonnay.

And then, back into the unseasoble teatime sunlight of the Second City. Which would have been the end of the story, except that the direct train home to Manchester is delayed (engineering works at Temple Meads) so what with that, and the glass of chilled lottery-sponsored chardonnay, and the two pints of strong lager in the bar at New Street (which by the way absolutely hasn't changed since 1986) I end up making one of my once-a-decade pilgrimages back to Wolverhampton, scene of my indiepop halycon days. Which I'm not sure turns out to be a good idea, for reasons which... I think we will save to the next post, don't you? Until then, then...

Transatlantic Parcel

My sister Abby, in between hiding in a small flat in the district of Queens from a world-famous not-quite-hurricane going by the misleadingly non-threatening name of Irene (she sounds to me like she should be running a launderette, not bringing death and destruction to the entire Eastern Seaboard) has somehow managed to get to a Post Office that hasn't been blown away. As a result of this intrepid behaviour, a parcel arrives, excitingly and Transatlantically. It proves to be the perfect antidote to the last week of the last pre-junior school summer holidays, containing not one but four exemplary items of contemporary Newyorkarama, including a bowl from Chinatown for Charlotte, a Firechief's Car With Opening Doors for Frank (he might be about to start junior school, but matchbox cars with opening doors are still absolutely the way to his heart), and for both me and Frank, a foldout map of the New York subway system.

I spend a good part of the evening poring over the map, revelling in evocative station names such as 103 St Corona Plaza, 46 St Bliss St, and 63 Dr Rego Park. The rest of the evening is given over to studying the fourth and final item in the package, which is an up-to-date edition of El Correo De Queens. This is the Spanish language newspaper for the neigbourhood, and is a worthy rival to the North Wales Evening Post when it comes to devoting acres of newsprint to recounting in great detail how not very much, really, has happened. The story of the Annual Dominican Republican Peoples Parade takes up the first three pages (they stretch it out from what would have been a mere two and a half by the simple expedient of repeating the phrase 'The Annual Dominican Republican Peoples Parade' every three sentences), and a further half-page of tightly-packed text, complete with a series of vox-pop interviews, is given over to the scandal of the inadequate routemaps displayed on the interior of certain neighbourhood buses.

That's not my favourite bit of 'El Correo de Queens' though. My favourite bit is the adverts, which routinely feature head-and-shoulder shots of gleamtoothed smalltime business proprietors, accompanied by their signature and a short caption aimed at conveying their status as what I believe our American cousins refer to as Stand Up Guys. The caption for Koeppel, the Northern Boulevard Car Dealership Man, reads 'Where Value Comes as Standard'. On the opposite page a snap of a physician named Dr Vincent D'Amore is accompanied by the legend 'Board Certified Emergency Medicine Physician Serving His Hometown of Maspeth, Queens For Fifteen Years'.

Good for Doctor Vincent D'Amore, I say (and by the way, I have just checked on Google as I was convinced his name had been appropriated by the scriptwriters of Friends and given to the corny sitcom doctor character played by Actor Joey in the show-within-the-show 'Days Of Our Lives'. Turns out the fictional surgeon was named Dr Drake Ramoray, which I am thinking is close enough to be no coincidence).

Where was I? Oh yes. It has been the last week of the last summer holiday before junior school and we have been in dire need of taking our minds off the impending horror of Monday morning. The door-opening fire cars and the Spanish language newspapers (and other items worthy of honourable mention, such as the latest in a steady supply of giant leeks from the allotment, the sight of the Irish ferry making its stately way past the Liver Buildings and a last-minute equaliser by Stockport County's Sean McConville rescuing two points from a Friday night home encounter with high-flying Luton Town) kept us bobbing along until Sunday night, when we we fell collectively victim to melancholy (and in the case of Frankie, who is allowed to burst into tears at the thought of Monday morning on the account of being seven, to a bout of helpless post-bed-time sobbing).

I think we've gotten over the worst now though. Frankie, an example to us all, got up cheerful and brave this wintery morning and even managed a hearty 'Good Morning' to the lollipop lady on the way into the unfamiliar junior school playground with the massive chickens and the even massiver Year Six Children. Fighting back a couple of tears myself I blew him a last kiss and made my own way to work, which may not have featured giant chickens but did involve making a Scary Introductory Phone Call to A Potentially Important Client. Fortunately I have many years' worth of Terrifying Monday Mornings under my belt, and was able to call on this experience by putting off that particular task until tomorrow, in favour of filling in a form, refilling my stapler, and making rather more than my fair share of tea.

Well, Tuesday is much more the day for Scary Introductory Phonecalls To Potentially Important Clients, do you not think? Your own admissions of Sunday Night Monday Morning hopelessness, in the comment box if you please, usual Crinklybee Rules of the House apply, Judges Discretion Final, extra points for tears, giant chickens, and/or the use of the Spanish language as colloquially spoken in the borough of Queens, NYC.